


Cold Iron, Red Lips

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, Gun Kink, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert's hand that held the gun was trembling. That had never happened before. He looked at Valjean, still kneeling there on the ground of the sewer, the boy near-dead in his arms, and his hand trembled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Iron, Red Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAnymore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnymore/gifts).



Javert's hand that held the gun was trembling. That had never happened before. He looked at Valjean, still kneeling there on the ground of the sewer, the boy near-dead in his arms, and his hand trembled.

Then it got worse. Valjean stood and came closer. Valjean grabbed the gun and pressed it into his own chest, and something inside Javert finally broke loose, like a sail tearing free from the mast. It did not hurt. It was just a moment of breathless terror, the moment of weightlessness before a fall as all certitude was ripped from him together with his old life. All that remained were Valjean's wide eyes, Valjean's warm hands grabbing his to force the gun against his own chest, the gleam of sweat on Valjean's head, dripping down his brow as Javert stared at him.

It wasn't really the sort of situation they prepared you for. In all these years, Javert had never had a suspect grab his gun and point it at his own chest with so much conviction and determination on his face. There had been the occasional suicidal lunatic pointing a gun at his own head, sure. But those didn't look like this. Determined. And—fearless. As though there was no danger. As though Valjean did not have to fear Javert.

Wasn't that madness? He'd hunted him for so many years, and now the old con was looking at him as though he knew that the only right choice Javert could make in this situation was to let him go.

Javert clenched his fingers around the metal of his gun to hide the fact how shaky his grip was.

Valjean was talking, but he could not understand his words. He could only stare, distracted, as a drop of sweat rolled down Valjean's cheek, followed it all the way down until it reached the black turtleneck. He looked back up, imagined Valjean stealing the riot gear—maybe shooting a member of the SWAT team in some alley, that's what they all—

The thought broke off, and his hands felt large and clumsy, not made to handle the cold gun in his hand. Valjean wouldn't, he thought; then he realized what he had thought. It jarred something in him, a shocked agony like a taser right to his chest. He drew in a deep breath, then found his thoughts halted once again by the sight of Valjean's mouth.

He'd never really paid attention to other people's mouth before, but Valjean's mouth...

Javert took one hand from his gun to draw it over his own lips, shaken to his core. Valjean had fallen silent. Valjean was still staring at him. Javert couldn't bear it anymore. _If I shoot him now,_ a wild voice in him said, _there will be an end, and it will all be over, and no one will care._

 _No,_ he thought, and watched how his hand slowly raised the gun. Valjean was still looking at him with those large eyes, staring at him with the shock of a child and the weariness of an old man.

No, he told himself again, and as if to protest, his hand pressed the gun against Valjean's lips. Valjean still did not speak. His eyes were dark with fear and exhaustion, and Javert suddenly wondered if Valjean would be relieved if he'd put the gun to his own head now.

Something about the thought was tempting.

He kept watching as he pressed against Valjean's mouth with a little more force, until those lips were forced to part for it. It was obscene how Valjean's mouth closed around the barrel of his gun, those lips all red and round and gleaming with spit. Valjean's eyes were wide and fearful, and Javert was so tired of thinking, so tired of this entire mess.

Everything was silent. Somewhere in the distance was the deep, monotone thrum of a large fan. 

Javert watched as another droplet of sweat ran down Valjean's face, those eyes ridiculously large and dark as they stared at him. He looked at the fringe of Valjean's lashes, and the shocked, helpless white of his eyes, and then back down to his mouth, that perfect O of it. A part of him was violently disgusted. Some other part of him watched, silent and tense, as he pressed the gun deeper into Valjean's mouth, imagined how the metal would feel on his tongue: cold and heavy and deadly. Javert wanted to press his thumb to those swollen lips and feel how hot and soft they were against the cold steel.

There was the sound of heavy breathing now. Something was panting like a wild animal. It took a long moment to realize that it was he who made those sound, that here he was, facing Valjean at last, and he'd forced Valjean to suck on his gun like in one of those movies he'd always hated for how wrong they were, and beneath his coat he was hard. The worst thing was that he thought that Valjean would do it. Javert could slide his gun out of his mouth and watch it shine with spit in the flickering light, and Valjean would drop to his knees right here in the sewer if he asked it of him, to suck his dick if that was the price Javert asked to let him take the boy and go.

Valjean's chest rose and fell. Javert was still panting and staring at the red lips, watching as Valjean stood still and let him slide the gun deeper into his mouth and then pull it back. Fucking his mouth, Javert realized, that was what he was doing, fucking Valjean's mouth with the gun...

He clenched his jaw and pulled the gun out. There was a string of spit, and Valjean's lips were dark, looking almost bruised in the light from the flickering fluorescents somewhere above, where the huge fan was still whirring softly. Javert was still panting. Valjean didn't move, just stared at him, eyes wide and looking so fucking innocent, as though he couldn't believe that Javert would harm him. Javert stared back and thought of him on his knees in the dirt. He knew that Valjean would do it if he asked, that he'd go to his knees and suck him off while a few feet away that boy lay dying. Again he tried to tell himself that the revulsion crawling in his stomach that made him want to heave was because of how Valjean had looked, sucking on his gun with those red lips all wet—

“Go,” he said. His fingers clenched weakly around his gun once more. “Go! I'll be waiting.” 

He refused to use his name, forcing out the old number in a desperate bid for one last acknowledgment, that flinch that would return everything to how it should be: Javert, the cop. Valjean, the con on the run. But Valjean didn't even seem to hear. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he was mad. Yes, mad indeed to live in a world where he could believe that such things didn't matter!

Then Valjean smiled, that bruised mouth that had to ache lifting to smile at him as though they were—as though Javert hadn't—

Valjean's hand clasped his shoulder. A quick, friendly pat, and Javert stumbled back in sudden terror.

At the touch, the earth had seemed to quake beneath his feet for a moment so that he had lost his footing. But even as he stumbled, desperate to find his balance amid whatever had overtaken him, Valjean's attention was already back on the boy. 

Javert tried to breathe calmly as he watched Valjean pick up the boy and walk past him. Then Valjean said “Thank you.” Almost, Javert didn't hear it over the sound of the fan turning somewhere in the distance, but he watched Valjean's mouth form the words: that mouth that even now was red and bruised. He couldn't think of anything but the sight of metal spreading it open, red lips wide around it, Valjean's eyes large with fear and tension and never once looking away from him.

Slowly, Javert raised the gun.

Valjean was gone. Valjean would get the boy to a hospital, or a doctor who refused to report the bullet hole he'd seen in his thigh.

Javert pressed the gun to his mouth.

The sensation was curious. The barrel felt larger than he had thought it would. He had to stretch his jaw wide to allow it to slide inside. It was cold, and it tasted of metal, and it was heavy on his tongue. 

So this was what Valjean had felt. It wasn't... it wasn't like sucking a cock at all, he thought, and felt a familiar, old revulsion well up in him, and then put that away with other memories.

His hands were sweaty. Something inside his stomach rolled and lurched and there was a buzz like static in his head—garbled fragments of thoughts that swelled into a roar. Nothing made sense. Nothing was right. 

Everything had been right once, hadn't it? He thought with despair of Valjean, but that only made it worse. He pushed the gun deeper into his mouth, remembering once more how the same weapon had spread open Valjean's mouth, and he sucked on the barrel even as his body ached with a sudden, relentless need. He was hard, and perhaps that was the worst, because _who shoots himself in the head with his dick still hard in his pants?_ What would they think when they found him?

The thought was irrational, and he tried to push it away. All he had to do was pull the trigger. His hand trembled. Again he thought of Valjean's mouth, and hated the way his cock ached with need, even now, even here when he had a gun in his mouth.

God. Maybe he'd turn out too pathetic even to off himself.

Convulsively, he swallowed around the barrel. He'd put it into Valjean's mouth. He could still taste Valjean on it.

He couldn't even say anymore what he loathed more: the way he had let him go, the way he had fucked Valjean's mouth with a gun—because that was what he had done, God, that was really what he had done, no use denying it—or the way that he was hard, even now. He couldn't laugh around the metal in his mouth, but he still managed a pathetic sound.

There was a splash, somewhere behind him. Then another.

Javert squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation almost as strong as bone-deep relief.

“Javert,” Valjean said, and Javert wanted to laugh again. Instead, he forced himself to stay silent. If he opened his mouth now, he half feared that a sob would come out.

“Put the gun away, Javert.”

Valjean's voice was weary, but there was still a gentleness in it. It made Javert bristle, even more so than that terrible need to listen, to let Valjean take the gun, to let Valjean decide how it would go on.

How _could_ it go on?

Valjean came closer, his eyes serious, his movements gentle, as though he feared to spook him. The thought brought a new surge of humiliation.

Then Valjean's hand was on his, warm against his skin. Javert's hand still trembled, and he told himself that he could still do it. If he pulled the trigger now, he wouldn't have to bear what was to come after: the pity in Valjean's eyes, the knowledge that he'd never be anything but _this_ to Valjean. 

Slowly, Valjean pulled the gun out of his mouth, and Javert offered no resistance, horrified by the the thought of Valjean's eyes on his mouth, just like Javert's own eyes had lingered on Valjean's lips.

Briefly he wondered if Valjean would have still sought to rescue him if he knew that Javert liked sucking dick. If he knew that even now, Javert was hard beneath his coat from the way Valjean's lips had parted for the gun. How many nights had he tossed in his bed, reliving the moment in the hospital when Valjean had gone to his knees for him?

Valjean took the gun from his hand and carefully put it down. Then he straightened, his eyes questioning. Javert could hardly bear to look at them. What was there to say? Maybe Valjean deserved an explanation or an apology, but there were no words left in him.

When Valjean's hand brushed against his cheek, it came as a shock once more. It was the gentleness of it, he thought dizzily. How was this man capable of gentle touches when they both came from a place where such things did not exist? There should not be gentleness in Valjean, just as there was no gentleness in Javert.

Valjean shook his head. “Why would you do that?” he asked at last. His voice was calm. 

Something inside Javert still felt close to breaking. Valjean's kindness was jarring—but then, all control he'd once possessed had been destroyed by the cataclysm of his touch, and now all Javert had left were ruins, splinters of the old iron conviction that had pierced his chest and turned every breath, every thought to agony.

“You have no reason to,” Valjean then said. His hand fell away, and the absence of that touch was just as tormenting. There was still no understanding in his eyes, and Javert desperately wished there was a way to make him see. He couldn't bear his pity. He couldn't bear to live in a world where Valjean had been right all along. But he also couldn't bear to live in a world where he'd always been wrong.

His hand was shaking as he reached out. The gesture was awkward, but when his fingers brushed Valjean's mouth, Valjean exhaled in shock and then fell silent and still, looking at him from those wide eyes as Javert tried to force himself to gentleness. Valjean's mouth was hot against his fingers, his lips swollen and bruised. He traced them. There was a small cut at the corner of Valjean's mouth. He traced that too and was sorry for it, and for the way that his cock still throbbed with eagerness beneath his coat.

He thought of sliding his fingers into Valjean's mouth. Would Valjean allow it, as he had allowed the gun? After all, Valjean already knew that he was faced with a madman.

It would be wrong. Javert stared at the bruised lips and thought of them wrapped around his cock. He clenched his jaw.

“You know nothing of my reasons,” he said, and Valjean didn't move, not even when he drew his thumb all along Valjean's bottom lip. How soft it was. He wondered if Valjean had been popular for it, back then.

If he had been, he probably wouldn't have kept Javert from shooting himself.

Maybe this could have been set right if Valjean had taken the gun and made him kneel. If Valjean had put the gun into his mouth. If Valjean had made him suck his cock—God, he'd have been eager for it. He would have told himself that it was because of the gun, and he would have been able to go on lying to himself right to his death.

“Then what do you know of my reasons?” Valjean asked, and the question jarred Javert out of where his thoughts had led him.

“You want...”

Javert found he could not answer the question. Valjean was still a mystery to him. Nothing the man did made sense—only it did, but contemplating that was like staring at the sun. You had to avert your eyes before you went blind.

“I don't want you dead,” Valjean said patiently when Javert couldn't go on. “And I want the boy to live. He's bleeding, Javert. He needs a doctor.”

Javert nodded dumbly. 

“And I'm very exhausted.” Now a tentative smile appeared on Valjean's lips. Javert stared, transfixed by that small cut. He'd pressed his finger to that. 

“If you really want to help me, you'll help me carry him home.”

Somehow, Javert found himself nodding. The gun was still at their feet. Valjean's lips were still red and bruised. 

Javert watched as Valjean blinked and touched his lips. His cock still ached, hidden beneath the leather, and he wondered wearily whether Valjean's opinion would change if he helped him home and stripped off his coat.

Then Valjean's hand fell away, and he reached out to clasp Javert's shoulder once more. This time, he didn't let go as he gently turned Javert towards where the wounded boy was waiting.

The gun was still on the ground between their feet. Javert thought again of the strange, pliant warmth of Valjean's lips. He did not stop to pick it up.


End file.
